Sunday
by Claudaujay
Summary: Glinda Upland has a hidden passion for artwork, and on a beautiful Sunday afternoon beside Suicide Canal, she decides the sight of her best friends lying on the grass is the perfect scene for a painting. She orders them to remain totally still... and without speaking a word, romance begins to bloom. Pairings include Gelphie, Fiyeraba, Bessa and Flinda. Songfic, VERY fluffy.


_**Glinda Upland has a hidden passion for artwork, and on a beautiful Sunday afternoon beside Suicide Canal, she decides the sight of her best friends lying on the grass is the perfect scene for a painting. She orders them to remain totally still... and without speaking a word, romance begins to bloom. Pairings include Gelphie, Fiyeraba, Bessa and Flinda, inspired by the song "Sunday" by Stephen Sondheim.**_

 **Hey everyone! This is my first ever songfic, based around my two favourite musicals, Wicked and Sunday In The Park With George. The latter's first act finale song is called Sunday, which is probably one of my favourite songs ever. I was listening to it on a Sunday believe it or not and this idea just popped into my head. :) I adapted some of the lyrics towards the end so that it better fit the context of the songfic, but most of all they're the same. Also, it combines the lore of both book and musical.**

 **Not much to say other than that, tbh. Please RR, and enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **Sunday**_

 **Songfic:**

 _Order..._

Glinda Upland of the Upper Uplands, in a rare moment of insight, once contemplated that her whole life was reminiscent of a painting. It was carefully constructed: an image of intricate balance and design. If one miniscule detail jutted out, angular and out of place, the overall effect would be severely diminshed. And art isn't always easy. Her life was locked in a perpetual and tense stalemate between the obligation to conform and the desire to simply be herself. Her popularity didn't stem merely from family priviledge (though this was of course a contributing factor), and if she didn't maintain an acceptable appearance she'd be left out for the vultures just like any other. She knew that, considering the sheer width of the class divisions in Oz, any complaints she might direct towards her lifestyle would appear rather lacking in perspective, but the life of the rich wasn't all luxury and priviledge. Or perhaps it was, and Galinda was so indoctrenated, so used to taking all her hereditary entitlements for granted, that she'd come to believe those who lived in their little bubbles, sealed off from the ugliness of the world, were the true victims.

So, she maintained this outlook, this visage, of a popular socialite, and to all intents and purposes it was a visage that beheld nothing but the truth. She'd had her debutante ball, and been introduced to all the right diplomats, and learnt to dance a Gilikniese waltz immaculately... so why did she often feel that cold, metal restraints were strapped around her ankles? Sometimes she disregarded this notion- told herself they were manacles forged merely by the mind, but at others she felt so sweltered, so weighed down, that she thought her legs might crumble beneath and the facade would melt away, disintegrating to a pile of ash on the ground. Perhaps this was why she'd once decided never to divulge to anyone her foremost hobby. The pastime she'd wasted days and months and years attempting to perfect, only to, in her eyes, never quite succeed. This aptitude for art was her greatest satisfaction and her greatest irritation; ink splashed on a canvas could not be so easily interpreted as right or wrong. There was that blurred line. That lack of confidence in her abilities, that lingering doubt, that deeply imbedded fear of ridicule, that spurred her to keep this secret to herself.

So why now? Why, in this very moment, had Galinda chosen to peel away the facade with the ferverence of a person suppressed as totally as the Animals of Oz? At her home in Pertha Hills, she had never once been so comfortable, at ease and assured that the mockery she so detested would not come. Not once had she ever been so confident that her true home... well, not her physical home exactly, but the home burning like the searing afternoon sun in her heart, lay on the campus of Shiz university, with the old Ozian architecture surrounding them, and the bustling cityscape in the distance, and the picturesque vision of Suicide Canal to her left. And the best friends she'd ever known, strewn out on the summer grass before her.

 _Design..._

She could tell that the abrupt revelation of her adoration for artwork had surprised them all a little. This was especially true of her boyfriend, Prince Fiyero Tigelaar of the Vinkus, whose first words in response had been a rather ugly use of profanity, made even less attractive by the fact he was been part way through disgesting a slice of bread. Nonetheless, Glinda found it exceedingly difficult _not_ to see him as attractive regardless of situation, such was the extent of his masculine charm. That sonorous tenor voice, the sunburnt skin and those delectable blue diamonds scorched from his cheek down to the chest she knew to be well-toned never failed to make her swoon. She anticipated that, after their fast encroaching graduation she may end up returning to the Vinkun castle of Kiamo Ko as his wife; he was, after all, as compatible and worthy as any boy she could possibly have hoped to encounter at Shiz, though whether the mutual affection between them reached the high peaks of love she couldn't quite determine. It would, however, satisfy her ever-demanding parents.

Next to him around the sewn picnic cloth was a person who her friendship with had repulsed all of her original Shiz compatriots, namely Pfannee, Shenshen and Milla. They were silly, frivolous girls, thus providing passable "friends" for Glinda herself, but after the death of Dr Dillamond she had cast them aside, much to the vexation of her parents and the bewilderment of the rest of Shiz. She was much the better for it, and despite the considerably higher status of her class and far superior social skills, Elphaba Melena Thropp undoubtedly provided the foundation for their group and indeed most of their conversation. This was a girl as rude and sarcastic as she was brilliant, as infuriating and as she endearing and emotionally autistic as she was undeniably perceptive. She had the blessing, or what she'd intially seen as a curse, of sharing a dormitory in Crage Hall with "Elphie" after an organisation misshap, and though they're interaction had been limited and strained at first it soon blossomed into a firm friendship... or so she'd like to presume. It was hard to tell if Elphaba enjoyed her company or not, for she treated friends and enemies as if they were one and the same- with an unapproachable standoffish attitude, and her own special brand of intellectual snobbery. On the list of details Glinda found difficult to comprehend about Elphaba, this ranked somewhere near the top, alongside her baffling verdiris. Did she have some strange mutated gene adopted from flora in her family tree? Did she photosynthesise and respire as they learnt about in great depth in Ozian Biology class?

The mere thought of the enigma surrounding the woman currently sat crosslegged with an academic book in her lap made her want to scream in despondent frustration. Even now, she seemed bored, with those half-moon glasses resting on the bridge of her nose as she read at an almost intimidating pace. Of course, this was a book penned on the subject of Animal rights, her most prominent passion. Mention of this subject was guarenteed to get her riled up, and since the group maintained a sort of morbid curiosity in her spurts of anger, it came up more often than not. If only Elphaba would show as much as interest towards Glinda herself _,_ for she found herself constantly craving for it like a dog to its master. Her charisma, her beguiling wit... entranced the blonde in some way.

 _Tension..._

Elphaba's sister, Nessarose Thropp, had a similar aura about her, though the latter, in her appearance and personality, couldn't really be much different. True, they were both stubborn and opinionated, but then again, wasn't everyone at times? Nessa was often referred to as "tragically beautiful" for good reason: if she wasn't confined to a wheelchair, she would surely have half the wealthy bachelors in Oz drooling at her feet (exlcuding the ones pursuing Glinda, of course). Perhaps this disability, which she openly displayed her deeply rooted contempt for, was what explained her obsession with Unionism. Sometimes, Glinda found her excessive piety to be incredibly irritating, as on the matter of religion she had to agree with Elphaba that it was a load of old nonsense. Nessa went through a stage, after her first breakup with Boq, where she slipped into a chasm of faith induced melancholia so deep her company was virtually intolerable, and it was only through Glinda's matchmaking skills that their relationship was rescued.

 _Boq and Nessa are a bizarre couple,_ Glinda thought _._ She was aware that this suggestible Munchkin, who was according to him tall for his race, had only begun courting Nessa as a means of getting closer to Glinda herself. She had to admit, she found his attention flattering, but he was nothing compared to Fiyero, so she'd let him down as gently as possible. He'd quickly broken up with Nessa so as to avoid any further emotional complication, but Glinda encouraged him to continue with the relationship, aided by the theats on his life made by Elphaba, ever the protective sibling. His compliance appeared to have paid of, for now there appeared to be a genuine connection between them. They sat to Glinda's right, Nessa in her chair and Boq at her side, fingers interlinked and sharing the most adoring glances, hiding under the shadow of a purple parasol.

 _Balance..._

'How long did you say this was going to take?' Fiyero grumbled, inspecting his fingernails.

Glinda fixed him with a withering glare, but Elphaba managed to get there first. 'First of all, Master Tigelaar, you might've noticed that Glinda hasn't actually started yet. Second of all, I pray to the Unnamed God, nonexistent though he may be, that you're not going to act like a petulant toddler for the _entire_ time.'

Nessa seemed annoyed by Elphaba's casually inserted blasphemy, but didn't comment. She'd decided there wasn't much point trying to divert her sister from the path leading to hell.

'Hey! I can't help it if I have better things to do than sit around while Glin paints us,' he protested.

The green girl snorted. 'Yes, and what might this imagined schedule consist of? More procrastination and debauchery, I assume-'

'Would you _please_ stop moving,' Glinda interrupted.

 _Light..._

All four of them turned to the Gilikin, taken back by the sudden outburst. She wasn't known for being confrontational.

'What? Did I not say merely moments ago that I require you to be totally still? Modelling is all about concentration, and holding the pose. Everything needs to be in perfect balance otherwise the picture will be ruined.' Glinda continued preparing her canvas, which after announcing her intentions to paint her friends she'd been forced to run back to Crage Hall to collect.

'Wow,' Elphaba commented, sounding a little impressed. 'I do believe we've finally discovered what Glinda will abandon her decorum for.'

'I'm surprised you're even aware what decorum is, Fabala,' Nessa said wryly.

Elphaba scowled, while everyone else smirked.

'So Glin...?' Fiyero ventured after a moment's silence.

'What?'

'You never answered my question.'

Glinda said nothing, but the Vinkun prince persisted. 'Why didn't you tell us abou-'

'Don't. Move. The. Mouth.'

Now it was Fiyero's turn to scowl.

Glinda took one final searching look of the scene before her. _Yes._ This was it. This was the perfect setting for her long awaited masterpiece. The perfect subjects. The perfect order. The perfect design. The perfect tension. The perfect balance. The perfect light. _Harmony..._

Glinda raised her brush and begun to draw the outlines. The voices of angels took flight in her mind.

 _Sunday,_

Boq had never understood love before he met Nessarose. He recalled those freezing winter nights in the farmhouse where he grew up, a tiny speck of black paint on the burning yellow and green of Munchkinland's rolling fields. His mother had a way of weaving her fairytales so that they would bewitch the ears of anyone who listened, and he loved to lose himself in their enchantments. Witches like those of Kumbricia. Hideous giants and fair maidens held captive by dragons and other mythical beasts of Oz. Some ended with the traditional "they all lived happily ever after", but some, most likely originally told by someone with a severe affliction of cynicism, ended with the death of the character he come to be so invested in, and then he would cry for all the miseries of the world in that peculiar youthful way, as if they somehow understood them better than anyone else. Nonetheless, he was determined to see the good in the world rathe than the evil. A small part of him always believed that the witch would be overcome. A small part of him, a miniscule smoldering cinder, always believed that love would inevitably triumph all. Love would win the prince his maiden and kill the dragon, no matter how many twists in the road he faced along the way.

It was Glinda who added the kindling to that cinder. When he saw her in the cafeteria, on that first day of attending Shiz university, he was half convinced he'd suddenly awaken, satisfied enough to dream her. In the months that followed, he spent each Ozian History lecture, the only lesson he shared with Galinda every week, breathing in the features that hung over his daydreams. The way her blonde curls amassed at the crook of her neck, or when she allowed it to fall in wavy strafes down her shoulders, or braided it in Gilikin plaits. The rolling blue of her eyes. Cerulean. Deep enough to drown within. In comparison to her, every other girl seemed pale and cold.

But Nessarose... the sheen in that brunette hair...

 _By the blue purple yellow red water,_

It was a different kind of beauty that he barely noted at first. Whatever connection they shared was, to him anyway, purely platonic, for Glinda had still been singed across his pupils. It was cruel of him, and he deeply regretted the hurt he'd caused her. Nessa constantly lamented her inability to walk, but Boq wished he could help her see differently. Should they look into the water of Suicide Canal beside them, he knew that she wouldn't see a woman with soft, soothing features, with her chalky skin virtually incandescent in the gleaming sun. She would see a chair, and the pitiable frame of a girl slouched within it. But Boq loved this about her too, and sparing a glance to Glinda across from him, lost in the world of her painting, he knew without a shadow of a doubt where the true love his mother told him of all those years ago resided.

He traced Nessa's hand with his fingers, and she spared a smile which floated on the sunbeams.

 _On the green purple yellow red grass,_

Fiyero Tigelaar found the notion that Glinda would keep a secret from him painfully irksome. It was yet another blemish on the paper of their perfect relationship that had emerged as of late; how could a concept so brilliant in theory be failing so miserably in practise? He was perfect and she was perfect- therefore, they were perfect together. He was aware, perhaps a little _too_ aware, of the throngs of girls who had sighed dreamily at the sight of his high cheekbones and exotic tanned skin. He thought himself something of a Prince Charming figure, and arrogant though it may sound Fiyero had been told thus ever since his childhood, so who was really to blame for the admittedly bloated size of his ego?

Upon arrival at Shiz, he'd been given no indication to suggest it would be unlike all the other universities. It had the drab teachers and vacuous lectures. It had the fellow students which followed him around like lemmings. He'd loathed education throughout his life (there were a plethora of other far more pleasurable ways to waste his time), so the shock that came with the realisation he was actually beginning to enjoy his time at Shiz was sharp and disorientating. Fiyero had been surrounded by people all his life... and therein lay the issue. None of them really qualified as "friends", more so admirers, and he bore no close relationship with his parents who were nearly always too occupied with managing the day-to-day dillemas of the Arjiki tribe to pay attention to him. The company of Nessa, Boq, Glinda and _Elphaba_ helped him to acknowledge how isolated he'd once been.

 _Let us pass through our perfect park,_

 _Damn it_ , thought Fiyero, frustrated with himself. It was as if Elphaba Melena Thropp had used her blossoming skills at sorcery to etch herself into the contours of his brain. She chased him with a relentless stamina, forcing her way into the reveries induced by the monotony of lectures and shaking him awake moments before he managed to fall asleep at night. He couldn't determine whether he was attracted to her or not, for the nature of his obsession (he could think of no kinder word to describe it) was none like he'd experienced previously. With girls he tended to go through fleeting stages. Flings. They were girls that fell under the bracket of what he'd coined "his type": blondes, with pronounced curves and a bust, if he was fortunate, to die for. In other words, Glinda Upland. He took her in as she painted, his eyes darting up and down, reminding him of all the clearly evident reaons he'd first been drawn to her. Her beauty was feminine and downright _sexy_ , made even more aesthetically agreeable by her knowledge of how to dress. She didn't just know she was sexy. She flounced it. Underlined it.

Elphaba shouldn't even be comparable. She wasn't blonde. She had no pronounced curves or bust- in fact, Fiyero sometimes mused that she curved _inward._ Her wardrobe consisted of plain and unbearably drab frocks that reached past her knees. It was the equivalent of comparing an esoteric piece of abstract art to a portrait. Technically, they both consistuted painting, but were so different in what they represented and explored that they might as well be part of separate mediums. Glinda was easy. Uncomplicated. Fiyero did not have to strain and struggle to understand her message, but Elphaba made his brain hurt. She could be interpreted differently by everyone who saw her. The beauty came from her sophistication and intelligence, not from her outward appearance which most would claim to be ugly, but now Fiyero had gazed upon her for so long that he was beginning to see a flattering light. The green skin... wasn't... necessarily repugnant. In fact, against the equally green summer grass, he might call it pretty _._

And if there was one thing Elphaba definitely wasn't, it was _pretty._ She revelled in being difficult. A submissive, docile, relaxed Elphie? Hah, funny joke. Her mind was propelled by inexhaustibly destructive hurricanes that never relented or gave in. The only time he'd ever seen her close to calm was the afternoon of Dr Nikidik's first lecture. The day that coincided with the casting of her spell upon him.

When she accused him of hiding behind a false visage of happiness, the undeniable truth behind her cutting words had rendered him speechless. He'd wanted to fight back, retort, but how he could form a valid response to that without sounding, to quote Elphaba herself, like a petulant child? And then came his only hint that behind her own protective casing, built up out of necessity over the years, there was a capability for tenderness. The soothing touch of her hand against his bloodied cheek and the firm yet soft insistence in her eyes... somehow, someway, Fiyero Tigelaar had fallen hopelessly in love with the campus green girl, and it terrified him more than anything.

 _Pausing on a Sunday,_

Elphaba was the kind of person who based her opinions on unshakeable, concrete fact. To her, it was the logical approach to take. She saw nothing productive in lingering on speculation or conjecture. She preferred things when they were easily divided. Black or white. Right or wrong. Still, considering that humans were in their very nature living breathing contradictions, she also appreciated that the world didn't always conform to this idyllic picture. She found reading books and poetry to be her favourite avenue of pleasure, yet they could never be so simply defined. They were open ended and gave each reader their own prerogative. And, being an avid one, it was rare she ploughed through a work of literature without coming across a mention of the concept she eyed with such wariness and skepticism: love.

 _Love._ How it was considered appropriate to assign a four letter word so small to a concept so gargantuan she couldn't fathom. She fucking hated Oz. Even the language they spoke was tainted by pain inducing inconsistencies. This was a nation with problems laying waste to its very foundations, ruled by tyrants and inhabited by scumbags. These problems weren't arising from out of the blue either- they had raped the poor for generations, and would continue to do so unless someone put a stop to it. Elphaba had heard whispers on the streets of Shiz outside the campus. The fire of rebellion burning inside her had been fanned to an inferno by the systematic murder of Dr Dillamond, who she'd served as a confidante towards in the months leading up to his downfall. At the order of Madame Morrible no less. The tumour of corruption was malignant and spreading into every nook and cranny of Oz's four quadrants, and day by day she was expected to sit with the friends she wished she didn't have instead of making a difference.

But they weren't bad friends. Quite the opposite. This was why she wished she didn't have them. They were a distraction from the things that really mattered. An extra detail she had to take into consideration. A burden.

 _By the cool blue triangular water,_

The nearby Vinkun prince provided particularly heavy baggage. Men were difficult in general. Living with Frexspar at Colwen Grounds had been a long drawn out war she was elated to see finally drawing to a close. She'd be glad to see the back of him, though Nessie might force his presence upon her on special occasions. The hinderance that came hand in hand with Fiyero was of a breed far more potent, however. The physical kind. Elphaba was not ashamed to admit that she lusted for the prince. Desired him in a personal, instinctive and feral manner that intimidated her somewhat. She was shocked that a individual so unwitting, so unintellectual, could hold an influence or her usually unresponsive body. Attractive men never turned her eye, except for Fiyero. _Men_ never turned her eye, except for Fiyero.

 _Wow. Good to know you're occupied with the important matters in life,_ Elphaba scolded herself sarcastically. She tried to concentrate on her book, but upon finding this impossible she tossed it aside and huffed.

'Elphaba Melena Thropp, pick up that book right now!' Glinda shrieked, all of a sudden reminiscent of a banshee.

 _On the soft green elliptical grass,_

She'd forgotten she was in the process of modelling for a painting. Again taken back by her roomie's fierce reprimand, Elphaba adjusted her glasses and re-settled the book on her lap in a rare instance of submission, hoping that the pose was more or less the same as the one she'd first adopted. In two years sharing a dormitory with Glinda, she'd never once received an indication that artistic expression might've been of interest to the blonde. It shocked her that she'd actively spend her time doing something creative. Something that might stimulate the mind. Glinda clearly wasn't dimwitted, having succesfully attained grades that granted her viable entry to, arguably, Oz's most prestigious university, but she often gave the impression of being shallow and ditsy. Like no doubt so many others, Elphaba had to concede she'd underestimated her mental capabilities, as well as the potential for a lasting companionship between them.

Healthy emotional relationships, be them platonic or romantic, had been sparce throughout the Munchkinlander's life, though sparce may have been a rather generous choice of adjective. Her father loathed her for reasons she'd couldn't claim to be unjustified, Nessarose tolerated her presence only out of sisterly obligation and those of the opposite sex treated her verigris as if contagious. So many people had recoiled in disgust at the sight of her skin that she had, via the inevitability of negative reinforcement, almost come to believe it was hideous herself. Certainly, it was a topic that she preferred not to address in conversation, and should it came up (regularly accompanied by a very unfunny reference to vegetables) it would instantly make her uncomfortable and jitterish. She wished she could feel comfortable in her own skin- never had that phrase been more painfully appropriate- but no matter how hard she tried to pretend it didn't matter, or that no one noticed, another tormentor would arrive at the scene and dish out another jibe, quickly crushing whatever shaky resolve she'd amassed. Glinda, though only after a miraculous change of heart, had become the first person excluding her family to treat her with at least vague civility, so Elphaba reserved a special fondness for the Gilikin, though she was pitifully bad at demonstrating it.

 _As we pass through arrangements of shadows,_

She smiled as the renowned Glinda pout tugged at the corner of that rosy red lip. My, when did this upper class society girl ever concentrate so hard? What did she through those eyes, so blue and shiny? She was probably struggling with the brown for Nessa's chair, or the purple of her parasol, or perhaps the composition. Either way, Elphaba was certain that she herselfwould look decidedly out of place, as was the status quo. Glinda, being infinitely more beautiful, would be the perfect model for any painting. She moved with such grace, such balance, such harmony, like the swans she often saw gliding across the water of Suicide Canal from their window in Crage Hall.

Elphaba blushed in a unforgivably girly manner and returned to her book.

 _Towards the verticals of trees,_

The painting was near completion. Glinda had worked in a flurry of inspiration. She was "in her zone", if you will: that remarkable epiphany, that enlightening vision, had struck her and sent her sprawling. She was in that mood that every artist dreams of. For some inexplicable reason, every splash of paint fell onto her canvas with an astonishing accuracy, capturing the scene before her as if the palpable _life_ of that summer morning were spreading up through the wooden legs of her stand and straight into the picture itself. There was Nessa and Boq, in the background, holding hands, the purple of the parasol just as it should be. There was Fiyero, sprawled out to the left with that distant, faraway countenance, no doubt wishing he were elsewhere. There was the picnic basket and the summer grass and the brilliant blue water of the river and the blinding sun. Order. Design. Tension. Balance. Light. Harmony... except for one detail.

 _Forever,_

She couldn't quite get Elphie right. The black of her frock had been straightforward enough. The book she'd finished in seconds. But the face... that emerald, the shine, the light, of her nose and her ligtly flushed cheek, the paint refused to capture. She'd mixed what felt like dozens of blues and yellows, but that wonderful shade, like jewellery, somehow easily separated from the grass behind Elphaba's head.

 _By the purple yellow red water,_

She wanted nothing more than this painting to be perfect. She strived for perfection in all strains of her life, and this could be her masterpiece if only Elphaba weren't so damn perfect herself.

 _On the green orange violet grass,_

This was ridiculous. She felt like burying her head in hands and crying out to the glinting heavens above. She'd sketched Elphaba before. Sketched her a lot. Whenever the oppurtune moment arose, really. In lectures. In their dormitory. Whenever Elphaba was busy doing her homework to her usual perfect standards. She wanted to reproduce everything that was perfect about Elphaba. Everything that made her feel so inadequate.

 _On the grass in our perfect park,_

Suddenly, a breakthrough. Her eyes dilated impossibly wide. She'd been mixing another blue and yellow, and there it was. Right before her. A shade of green slightly darker than that which she'd used for the grass yet slightly lighter than that which she'd integrated for the trees and leaves at the back. Emerald. Just like Elpie.

 _Little flecks of light and dark,_

She immediately set to work in filling in the outline she'd left. She begun at those wonderful slender arms, building up the elbows tucked to her side, reaching up the shoulders.

 _And parasols,_

She added a few deft touches to the bony fingers that she often watched while clutching a pen. She could watch this girl, and the way she caught the light, forever.

 _People sitting by the trees,_

She arrived at the neck, and Glinda's strokes became soft to reflect the glow of sun resting on the skin. How she wished she could touch Elphaba with all the tenderness she did now.

 _By the Suicide Canal,_

Up to the chin. The sharpness of that chin, and the cheeks so flat and angular.

 _On the grass slope by the river,_

The nose, and the brilliant brown eyes.

 _On an ordinary Sunday,_

The firm forehead, and then finally, that flowing raven hair so long it brushed the tip of the grass.

 _Sunday,_

Glinda lifted her paintbrush from the canvas. 'I'm finished,' she whispered.

 _Sunday._


End file.
